Part 43 (1/2)
”Good luck to you both,” said I, as he swung from the train.
THE FOREST RANGER
_--hardy son of the pioneers--representing the finer social order of the future, rides his lonely trail, guarding with single-hearted devotion the splendid heritage of us all._
IX
THE FOREST RANGER
I
One April day some years ago, when the rustling of cattle (a picturesque name for stealing) was still going on in one of our central mountain states, Abe Kitsong, a rancher on the Sh.e.l.lfish, meeting Hanscom, the forest ranger of that district, called out:
”Say, mister, do you know that some feller has taken a claim in our valley right bang up against your boundary line?”
”Yes,” replied Hanscom. ”I've an eye on him. He's started a cabin already.”
”I didn't know that land was open or I'd 'a' took it myself. Who is the old chap, anyway?”
”I don't know where he comes from, but his name is Kauffman--Pennsylvania Dutch, I reckon.”
”Watson will be hot when he runs agin' the fence that feller's puttin'
up.”
”Well, the man's in there and on the way to a clear t.i.tle, so what are you going to do about it?”
”I don't plan for to do anything, but Watson will sure be sore,”
repeated Kitsong.
The ranger smiled and rode on. He was a native of the West, a plain-featured, deliberate young fellow of thirty who sat his horse with the easy grace which marks the trailer, while Abe Kitsong, tall, gaunt, long-bearded, and sour-faced, was a Southerner, a cattleman of bad reputation with the alfalfa farmers farther down the valley. He was a notable survivor of the ”good old days of the range,” and openly resented the ”punkin rollers” who were rapidly fencing all the lower meadows. Watson was his brother-in-law, and together they had controlled the upper waters of the Sh.e.l.lfish, making a last stand in the secluded valley.
The claim in question lay in a lonely spot at the very head of a narrow canon, and included a lovely little meadow close clasped by a corner of the dark robe of forest which was Hanscom's especial care, and which he guarded with single-hearted devotion. The new cabin stood back from the trail, and so for several weeks its owner went about his work in undisturbed tranquillity. Occasionally he drove to town for supplies, but it soon appeared that he was not seeking acquaintance with his neighbors, and in one way or another he contrived to defend himself from visitors.
He was a short man, gray-mustached and somber, but his supposed wife (who dressed in the rudest fas.h.i.+on and covered her head, face, and shoulders with an old-fas.h.i.+oned gingham sunbonnet) was reported by Watson, her nearest neighbor, to be much younger than her husband and comely. ”I came on her the other day without that dinged bunnit,” said he, ”and she's not so bad-looking, but she's shy. Couldn't lay a hand on her.”
In spite of this report, for a month or two the men of the region, always alert on the subject of women, manifested but a moderate interest in the stranger. They hadn't much confidence in Watson's judgment, anyhow, and besides, the woman carried herself so ungracefully and dressed so plainly that even the saloon-door loafers cast contemptuous glances upon her as she hurried by the post-office on her way to the grocery. In fact, they put the laugh on Watson, and he would have been buying the drinks for them all had not the postmaster come to his rescue.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE WOMAN CARRIED HERSELF SO UNGRACEFULLY AND DRESSED SO PLAINLY THAT EVEN THE SALOON-DOOR LOAFERS CAST CONTEMPTUOUS GLANCES UPON HER]
”Ed's right,” said he. ”She's younger than she looks, and has a right nice voice.”
”Is it true that her letters come addressed in two different names?”
queried one of the men.